


Let Us Prey

by abigator19



Category: The Originals (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drama & Romance, F/F, F/M, Hybrids, Mild Smut, Occult, Other, Protective Klaus Mikaelson, Thriller, Vampires, Violence, Witches, character absence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2019-09-15 03:09:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16925379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abigator19/pseuds/abigator19
Summary: #wattys2019Set in season3. Back in 1820, scorned teenaged revenant Jezebel Zhukov comes to New Orleans with the purpose to destroy the very haven that made her into the monster she is. Torn between a life she's all but disremembered and a future full of vengeful gambles, she finds balance with the only man she deems to have a worthy obsession over her: Klaus Mikaelson.Their intensely passionate Autumn was no puzzle, but to Niklaus, almost everything about Jezebel was. Little did anyone know, Jezebel was not the real mastermind in her ultimate betrayal of the Mikaelson family.Centuries have passed-centuries in which Klaus has been able to deal with the notion that ex-beloved Jezebel Zhukov was more of a challenge than anticipated. Perhaps, there is room for her to change his mind when she comes to town seeking to hinder the process of the unfolding Mikaelson Prophecy before it, too, ends in her undoing.





	1. I. Persona Non Grata

**Author's Note:**

> {Trigger warnings for details and discussion: emotional abuse, discussions of abortion and infanticide, drugs and alcohol usage, profanity, major character deaths, etc.}
> 
> [The Originals storyline is inspired by Julie Plec's TV adaption]  
> [My original character is not in any way based off a real person]
> 
> Additionally, some female character from the original plot are absent. Hayley, Hope, Camille, and Davina are not introduced in this AU.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the Strix Gala on Halloween, Marcellus is put to the test for loyalty and quick wit. However, the night takes an unexpected turn when he unknowingly frees a malicious-intentioned revenant at the party.

TRISTAN

Marcellus' suspicion rings through the cell phone that afternoon. "So this is your version of asking me something nicely? It's an invitation."

He's right on top of it.

"I believe Aya told you a bit about The Strix, Marcellus... Who we are, what we're capable of. Every few years, we gather to celebrate our status as the most elite creatures in the world, and in the rare instance we feel we've identified someone worthy of our attention, we choose to reach out," I explain to him.

"You think I'm interested?" he laughs at me.

My grin widens as I look out the window of the car. "You haven't hung up. I understand you fostered quite a community here in New Orleans. We can offer you something more global... Resources, access, power. You're a born leader, Marcel. Why stop at just one city?"

"Maybe I'm happy with what I've got," Marcel wants to convince himself.

"I doubt that, but if I've failed to coax you, just disregard this call. Though if you feel you'd be worthy of joining our ranks, don't be late to the party tonight." I hang up.

I feel triumphant having wavered Marcel's path in this sire line war. As the son of that most dreadful family, his allegiance will welcome the time for the Mikaelsons to learn not everyone loves them as much as they believe. My head is pounding. I need blood.

The chauffeur helps me from my car while a few awaiting members of my Strix take the bags from my car. Delaney manhandles the briefcase I've marked fragile. I rip it from his hand, holding it accordingly whilst I gaze at him tediously.

"Can you read?" I snap before walking inside.

As I gaze around the villa that will harbor my visitation, Aya approaches me with a thin smile on her face.

"Have you got her?" She wonders.

I hold the briefcase at eye level, and Mohinder carefully opens the large padlocks. I gesture one of our trusted witches over to remove the imprisonment spell I ordered to be put on this hazardous weapon. Aya gently opens the top of the luggage, frowning at the contents before me.

"Lovely, isn't it?" I purr.

I grab her wrist before she can touch the fine antique inside.

"A plastic vinyl? You said you were bringing the weapon," doubtfully, she reminds me.

"Willingly or forcefully. You're looking upon her," I smirk.

The vinyl record has been written on, scratched, discolored, but the tune remains untouched.

"This vinyl holds the earliest criterion of a witch known to man. Lethal, demonizing... She is what we need to to keep the Strix on top; she must be kept under our watchful eye at all times," I announce.

Several vampires maneuver around us, preparing for my stay.

"You have the power to say such things when you know someone as such," Aya hints.

I nod softly. The memory is unpleasant and a horrific picture, but I haven't the time to draw regret from it.

"Well, once we've had the pleasure, we'll be able to gauge how accurate her value is," I murmur.

I shut the briefcase forcefully, handing it over to Mohinder.

"Guard it with your life. And should you have any inducing hallucinations or cravings—don't worry. She does that." With that, I apply a harsh pat on his upper back to reassure him of where I put my trust, and I take my leave.  
I'll be needing a suit. 

MARCEL

I don't think the invitation has left my hand all day. I'm still staring down at it. It depicts a regal and wise night owl, but really, it's just a condescending way to put ornamentation on the Strix's name. Am I going? I'm against it, but if Elijah's gonna keep looking down on me like he does, I will accept just to find out what my options are.

Somewhere in my mind, I almost think things could be alright tonight. The suit I was gifted fit fine in an almost creepy way. Klaus has been preoccupied with an old friend at the Compound and Elijah will be showing up tonight at the ball. He'll just love seeing me here.

When I arrive at midnight on the dot, I find myself being watched by five extensive units of security at the front gates of the rented villa. Aya comes to my rescue and lets me inside.

"Forgive the high precaution. We're a private people," Aya notifies me.

That is quite the lackluster excuse to have fifteen tuxes loitering outside a double door entrance. Privacy could be mistaken for a disturbed hybrid who was uninvited. Aya gestures to a burly guy beside her.

She introduces us, "Marcel, I'd like you to meet my mentor Mohinder. He taught me everything I know about combat."

"Oh, if that's the case, then I am impressed," I say.

After all, she took me down with a tiny scratch on the neck. It's one of my new favorite party tricks.

She keeps talking, "As part of his discipline, he drinks only the blood of vampires he's vanquished in combat. He can go weeks without feeding, yet suffer no effects of hunger, such is his control over body and mind."

I really can only nod to that, looking around and ready to make the small talk compliment of the party's complexity. My eyes land on Elijah, who is watching me from across the room. A clinking noise interrupts our staring contest. Tristan wants to say something, taking a glamorous step into the center of the venue.

"Distinguished friends, welcome. It's so rare that we're able to come together like this to revel for one night in the company of true equals. Now I'd like to take a moment to welcome a very special guest, Mr. Marcel Gerard," Tristan declares.

His hand slowly straightens out to guide their gazes to me. There's clapping and my gratitude is silent.

He waits for it to stop before he says anything more. "Of course, before we tell Marcel all of our secrets, there's one small piece of business to which we must first attend. We must determine his worth."

I draw my head back hearing this. Determine my worth? What in the hell does that mean?

"That's funny. I seem to recall you being the one knocking on my door," I claim.

"You'll notice, Mr. Gerard, that over the course of the evening someone has managed to take something quite dear to you... Your daylight ring," Tristan smiles back at me.

I look down and he's right. The ring is no longer on my right middle finger.

He talks down to me likes I don't already understand what is about to happen. "You need to deduce the identity of the thief. Then you are simply to take back what is yours... Although, I doubt the prize will be easily relinquished. After all, despite our refinement, we're still a rather violent bunch. In victory, you become one of us. In failure, you meet your death. You have a few hours until dawn. I wish you the best of luck."

I needed something strong to impair my stress. I should have expected this. There is no such thing as a vampire, or a group of them for that matter, that doesn't play games. It wasn't a test of my worth–it was a test of my honesty. I know they're suspicious of me.

"I could have warned you," someone says from beside me at the bar.

It's Elijah, drinking his favorite scotch and expecting me to speak my apologies.

I lick my lips, calmly answering him, "Look. I didn't tell you I was coming tonight because..."

He finishes for me. "I wouldn't have allowed it."

He makes it so hard to feel like a mutual adult sometimes.

"There's that word... 'Allowed.' You know, I thought I'd earned the right to be considered an equal, but that's not the way it works in your family, so it's time I consider my options. If nothing else, The Strix aren't interested in me as a sidekick," I point out to him.

"These options, as you describe them, are a death sentence. I suppose I shall have to intervene. It is a shame. I expect it shall ruin my tuxedo. I have had this suit for over a hundred years. It's proven far more reliable than you, Marcellus," he replies.

I shake my head. "Relax, all right? I got this under control."

"Do you?" he imitates a parental tone.

I don't have to answer that.

The Villa of the party has a nice garden. It's only two in the morning. The sky is still holding onto the last crumbs of sunlight. It reminds me of the pictures in a book I stole from my master when I was young. The Alphabet of Ben Sira. I was learning how to read, and if it weren't for that picture of the Garden of Eden, I'd have lost interest.

I hear the quiet pat of footsteps behind me next.

I almost jump when I turn around. I'm facing a beautiful young woman whose extravagantly tan face is bathed in the dewy cobalt skylight, her eyes dark and menacing.

"Tristan send you out here to give me a clue?" I scoff.

She holds something out in her small palm; her hands are covered in henna and her nails look so sharp they might be talons. She has my sunlight ring.

I reach for it, but it transforms into a small black insects that crawls around her wrist and all the way up her arm.

"Who are you?" I ask.

She vanishes when I attempt to look back into her face. I find her in the doorway across from me, eerily watching me before dragging her fingertips around the curve of the archway. I hear the scratching sounds they make on the clay walls. She wants me to follow her. I try to meet her in the hallway before she gets too far, but what I see instead is much more unexpected. The villa has become empty. If it really is as desolate as I'm seeing it, where are the whispers coming from?

"Elijah?" Mistrustful, I call out.

Pure silence abruptly meets my ears. I can't even hear a trumpet in the distance. I place my naked hand on the wall beside me to help me maneuver through the dark space in the hallway. My loafers meet a big puddle. I think someone may have spilled their wine at first, but the farther I walk, the deeper this puddle gets. It smells of old tree sap. I'm walking through a flooded house; magic is at work here. I step back quickly when something long and fast swims past my shins. It hisses at my quick actions. Intimidated, I glance down the hallway. The woman, in her squalid underdress, is walking up the staircase.

"That's enough!" I shout to her. "You can tell Tristan he's taking it too far!"

If Tristan even is responsible for this. I trudge through the dark water carefully, and the closer I get to the dry grand stairway, the louder another hiss begins to get. It multiplies. I rip my hand off the railing when I notice that it has become home to a knot of snakes. I hurry up the stairway, catching a glimpse of a little white foot just exiting the last step at the top.

"Hey!" I call again.

All the doors upstairs are closed except for one. It is alive with cool natural light and opened all the way to the wall beside it. I approach one step per second. I don't see a single body in the room. All there is to be found is an outdated phonograph holding my daylight ring around its spindle. I shake off my wet shoes, until I find that they're not wet at all.

The illusion has ended, but my ring still waits to take a seat around my finger. I take it with careful consideration, looking around carefully.

Shnk. The small padlock on the briefcase beside my hand falls open. Fragile, the briefcase reads. I remove the lock and open the confidential storage, first looking over my shoulder for an audience, and then at the ridiculous find sitting on green velvet. Just some bizarrely marked up vinyl.

 

I scoff, handling it casually and turning it over in my hands. A series of warnings scribbled and cut into the grooves will prevent the user from even being able to hear a single note correctly. Tristan might just be a hoarder; not surprising for a guy who likes to seem clean cut. Does it even work? I set it on the spindle, pressing and turning dials until the needle meets the outer ring of grooves. I jump, clutching my ears falsely when it starts off with the sounds of screaming and shouting—like human torture. It doesn't last for long as the guitars strum freely and the drums pound out repetitive ornamentation. "Catalina"... By Vallejo, I think. A classic.

 

I slide my ring back on and watch it play for a few more seconds before I hit the pause switch. Not much of a treasure, but I guess Tristan is someone's groupie after all.  
I'm standing at the door frame when the song suddenly restarts. I turn around, and there is a thick black line that is spilling off the record player and growing by the second. Its hoard of dark beetles, reptiles, and ghostly shadows form a small hill; I approach it against my conscience.   
A dainty, tattooed hand makes a thudding sound on the creaking floorboards as it outstretches from the weaving pile of scales. Two hands. A shoulder. One head of hair. A torso and an abdomen. I take a step back to watch this unfold. Seductively, her hair falls over her breasts and the left side of her face. She rolls her neck to work out the crunchy knots that come with being enslaved to a–magic vinyl. The last reptile slips up her hip and into her hair. When she opens her eyes, they land on me. She's unclothed and just went through an entire metamorphosis. Not sure where I want to start a conversation. I'll start with this, I guess.

"How long you been on there?" I ask.  
A metallic, golden liquid drips from the inner corners of her eyes. She takes the time to wipe one, inspecting it and rubbing it to dust between her fingers.

"A while," she answers.

Her fingers make popping noises as she wiggles them softly in the moonlight. Her eyes are two different colors, one overfilled with amber tones and the other glowing in the dark like green liquid neon. She comes away from the arms of darkness, gripping my chin and scanning my features. She makes a noise of enjoyment.

"I bet you don't get a lot of gratitude for meddling, Marcellus," she gratifies me with a tincture of a Hispanic accent in her voice and a tired, cold smile on her lips. "But I'll remember this."  
I groan as her nails rake at my chest and briskly burst through my elastic skin, grabbing at my heart and squeezing until I pass out.

ELIJAH

I knew tonight would somehow be rudely interrupted. I'm staring in the face of my drunken brother and his supposed friend, Lucien. The girls are indecent, just as I usually see them anywhere near either of these men. Without the intent to be so obvious, I observe of the masked dames creep away and up a nearby staircase while Niklaus ensures to make a mess of things.

Niklaus starts shouting, "Tristan? Tristan! Come out, come out, wherever you are! Unless, of course, you're afraid!"

"Niklaus," I sigh, stepping forward.

He turns in an ungraceful manner to face me. I immediately know this childlike side of my brother.

"Oh, you're hammered. Which should come as a very little surprise to anyone here, but it does hamper the festivities somewhat. So, could I recommend that you find the nearest exit?" I requested, "Could you take your playthings with you, too?"

Klaus shoves his champagne glass into my hands, staggering farther into the ballroom.

"You know, I used to find it insulting that I was barred from your special little club. But now, I realize that I lack the flexibility to become a member—I could never get my head far enough up my own ass," he slurs at the crowd.

He bows and I exchange irritable glances. Lucien and their companions were delighted by Klaus' behavior. Nik walks back to me and takes the glass from my hand, downing the rest of the champagne.

"Come on. Let's go. This party's dead anyway," Lucien called.

I need air. I'm walking toward the gardens, but I stop when I hear a very alarming notice given to Aya by a servant.

"It's gone," the woman tells Aya.

I stop just behind the wall faces the staircase.

"What?" Aya hisses.

The woman clarifies, "The ring. I gave it to Mohinder as you ordered, but he thinks it may have already been stolen from his pocket. No one can find it."

It brings a bit of a smile to my face. Just then, Marcel is coming down the staircase in a daze. He's looking down at his ring carefully.

"You've taken it back and avoided the final test. How very admirable. We're leaving," I state abruptly.

Marcel swallows, "We need to talk. I think Tristan has a new friend, and–"

"The time has come!" Tristan's voice bellows.

Marcel is hesitant to follow Tristan anywhere, but the reassuring look he gives me tells me I don't have to follow. It could cause a greater push for him to join them if I go.

I can hear what goes on from downstairs, enjoying wine at the bar like that's all I need in this moment. Marcel claims the ring was found on the floor of the ballroom, but he knows exactly who took it.

"I'm sorry, but I did not take your—"

Marcel disrupts Aya. "Hold on, I didn't say it was you. You were just the middle woman. You slipped it off my finger when I arrived, and then you passed it onto Mohinder...the first member of the Strix I met tonight."

Their voices are hollow from far away. I imagine him turning to Mohinder, hidden among thieves. I take a casual stroll through hired dancers, party-crashers and staring acquaintances.

"Of course, as you know, that's only half the battle," Tristan assures Marcellus.

I take my time going up the stairs. The electricity suddenly filters in and out of consciousness. The flickers startle some guests. Mohinder paces on thin floorboards.

"There's no shame in dying at the hands of your superior," says he.

Marcel scoffs, "Not much glory in it, either."

Crash. The noise is loud, like a car ramming through someone's dwelling. I prefer to wait until it ends, but then there's a roar of a man in pain. I rush to the scene, worried it very well is Marcel, unprotected against the vile manners of my vampires. But it's not him.

Seven vampires lie dead and pale out in the hallway. Marcel huddles in the corner of the room, wiping blood off his lip. Tristan De Martel has cowered to the floor, Aya and Mohinder hastening to his side. I'm not frightened. I take a step back when something moves against my newly shined loafers. It's too dark to be a hallucination of the floor, it moves too quickly and too oddly to call it a mere shoelace. It's a snake. Marcel is only viewing the creature disappear out into the party. I turn to see it off, but it evaporates into the air before my exhausted eyes. Tristan cusses under his breath as he lifts up his pant leg. The bite is swollen, graying and oozing a black liquid.

"Who let her out..." Tristan begins to shout. "Who let her go!"

The remaining vampires exchange glances. Aya turns to a dim item behind her on a desk, then glances about the room.

"Notify the security and search the party. Don't let her escape," she calmly commands.

A slightly wounded Marcel skims the rim of the room and uses me for support. I escort him out before anyone can stop us. The vampires downstairs are taking turns staring at the staircase because they all know their leader is wounded. Marcel grips the staircase railing before reach the bottom. I follow his gaze. A tall man in black clothes watches us, turning away and rushes down a zig-zag path of people, out the door.

∞

Later on in the night, Marcellus and I haven't had the chance to even consider what happened only an hour beforehand. We simply ogle at each other from opposite ends of the Abattoir courtyard, above the scene in which Lucien sits beside his young and tired foreseer. They were having a brief moment of reunion, whereas Freya had brought her back to us—it doesn't matter how ethical of a plan she had. In which there was a silence, I filled the room with the sound of explanation over talking to Marcel about it first. I don't think either of us could interpret it, anyway. Perhaps, Niklaus or Freya could.

"A daylight ring returned by a venomous snake. Did it also ask of you to take a bite out of an apple?" Klaus jokes bitterly.

His eyes are narrowed in the direction of Marcel. He appears as though he might be holding onto something more that occurred tonight.

"Do not think it a coincidence, that creature sent Tristan into a panic. We need to trace the origin of the vermin—that manifestation. I have a feeling there is a party discounted seeking to undermine the Strix. And it looks as though were already at each other's necks," I suggest.

"It was the ghost," Marcel confesses without looking up from his whiskey.

Klaus turns his head towards him.

Marcel swallows, "He had a spirit, a girl on this...enchanted vinyl record. She led me to her and she used my ring as a bargaining item so she could trick me into letting her go. I think she turned into the snake that bit Tristan."

Klaus sneers, "Should I expect that you didn't want to speak up because the lass did you a grandiose favor?"

He's unhappy with Marcel's choices tonight, and he has yet to be subtle about it.

I question, "What did she look like? Did she have magic?"

"She was definitely a witch, just not the kind you find around here," is all Marcel can say.

"Did you see the weapon?" We hear Lucien ask the young witch Alexis, calling attention away from the topic at hand.

I hear Alexis rhyme, "She doesn't like to be called that. Though, if you attempt it she can bring about more misfortune than a black cat."

Klaus looks over at me specifically for clarification if she only speaks in patterns. Lucien repeats himself and she tries hard to give him a smile.

"...This is much more than an armament... In order to understand, it must be seen," she replies.

We all turn to face them. Lucien looks at me willingly. I walk forward as she offers me her hand. I'm slightly afraid of what I might see. I slow down the sinking of my fangs into her skin to ease her into it, unlike Klaus, who would stab his incisors into her flesh with animal instincts. She's showing me things—all too difficult to pull into focus except for those that I have to.

There's blood everywhere...our belongings are destroyed. A woman with long red hair, her gun pointed directly at me. Finn appears; he's in an inconceivable type of pain. My heart skips a beat for every movement that goes against a pitch black scene, the thousands of golden eyes surrounding their leader's red orbs. My brother Kol's perished corpse. A symbol I recognize but can't quite put my finger on.

Alexis is choking on something warm and rust-smelling. That is when she gives me the image I know best. The still bayou, still trying to wash away my past sins. A hand shoots out of the unbroken surface and latches onto the land. She stares straight at me with her heterochromatic eyes, but imaginatively moving past her, they are looking onward as Niklaus is torn to shreds by a mob of blurry faces.

I come up for air, spitting out the blood I've drank.

"She's—poisoned," I gag.

Alexis promptly draws her last breath in the arms of Lucien. He panics, his heart breaking because he once felt a short and vague sentiment for the girl. Klaus and Marcel are waiting to see what I'll do next after I've regurgitated everything I've taken from her system. I don't want to tell them anything because then, I would have to tell them everything. For, you don't tell the children that there is a snake deep in the summer of your home—you take care of it yourself and you don't say a word.


	2. Just Me and You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jezebel takes to the streets of New Orleans, confronting new foes and old friends. Aurora prepares to reunite with Niklaus, but is simultaneously sidetracked by a potential threat to her brother, Tristan.

KLAUS

The smell of lavender has never been an enticing smell when laced with blood. She makes herself obvious to us in that way, thinking herself a siren of vicious sailors. Every time I look upon the purple flora, my mind latches onto a charientism that targets my weakness and Aurora recognizes that.

Elijah kneels beside a freshly dead woman in our courtyard this morning, holding the poem left with the vulgar gift.

"I remember her to be a better poet," I sigh.

Elijah shakes his head. "I don't think this is lacking in poetry... We have two menacing women on our hands."

There is no shortage of malignant belles here, and I suppose our family is simply the blood honey that attracts the timeless uprooted maniacs once in a while. I could neglect to picture Aurora De Martel as the malevolent force that works on the same plane as a venomous witch, but this city is known to bring out the worst in others. It's how we intended it; and for us to be the judge of friend and foe illusions.

Our mystery witch could wait. I had to see Aurora for myself.

I touch Elijah lightly on the shoulder. "She wants to be found. Shall we?"

"Are you so incredibly eager? You haven't said her name in a millennium and neither have we, at your command," recalls Elijah.

I stop in my tracks, reckoning, "I won't wait so that she can place her calling cards all over my home, Elijah."

"If you're going... Listen to me first. The vision Alexis bestowed upon me...Aurora was in one of them, but she wasn't the only thrill of the past that bubbled to surface," he quickly summarizes.

He cannot to shy me away from the topic. Not after what she did to me and will attempt to do to me again.

"If you wish to tell me something that could possibly divide us then te absolvo, brother. We find her, we'll kill her together," I resolve.

I can see it in his face that he's not satisfied with that, but I simply can't heed to it.

AURORA

I'll be patient. I won't place too much hope into this reunion, although I am quietly confident that I can make this right. That you'll love me again, my dear Niklaus. A sweet agenda I've looked forward to since the break of morning.

Just this morning, I confirmed the florist girl was delivered with a clear and lovely message to him. Perhaps, I could've compelled her away, but where's the stage drama in that?  
I secured the floral shop to myself—it will be a quiet place for us to spend time alone. I consider all supernatural personae to be the exact same: offer them blood or sacrifice (or both) and you are in their good graces. I've never failed to predict these things, I swear I could be just as great of a wizard as the one Lucien is lusting after right now. Poor thing; though, I can't say it doesn't breed me approval at least one witch dies a day around here. They're the real nationalists, praying for their own private America in which all vampires suddenly drop dead. Maybe the flower wench was a witch; maybe I had performed a service to the community.

I thought I'd remembered to turn the "open" sign over to relay a contrary message. I suppose some can't take a hint. A dainty clacking noise appears behind me, a small tap to end the concert of noise suggesting someone is in front of the counter.

I'm admiring the custom orders on the shelves, asserting to the customer, "We're closed."

Although they do not speak a word after mine, I can feel eyes on the back of my neck. It makes the curly red tresses on the back of my neck stand on end as I recognize the moment is finally here.   
"Nik," I softly smile.   
I turn to face him. The name does not fit the personage.   
On my far left, a girl in a vintage black babydoll dress appears to be browsing the fresh boquets.   
"I'm sorry, did you not see the sign? We're closed," I buttress my warning.   
She turns her head slightly to me, her round multitone eyes ogling at me while her gentle fingers graze the fissured petal of a mauve callalily.   
"Oh, I'm not buying, I just came to pick something up? It's addressed to Tristan De Martel." puzzled, she reads the tag on the oriental fabric box.   
A delivery of flowers? To my brother?  
"What for? What's going on?" I frown.  
She shows me her empty, ringed palms. "I'm just the messenger."  
As I stroll away to get the bouquet, I keep an eye on her reflection in the glass over the framed portrait above the front counter.  
"You know, in Japan, they call them higanbana. Flowers that draw lost souls to their next reincarnation," I state.  
Her voice scrapes gravel, "I hear they only tell people those things to keep them from losing hope. After all, living in a monastery on the side of a dormant volcano? Kind of disheartening, no?"  
My heart skips a beat. I whip around, grabbing her throat and pinning her on her back to the cashier counter, leaning over her.  
"Who the hell are you?" I demand.  
"Your guardian angel," the woman jokes.  
The hand I don't use to squeeze her lovely neck pushes one long baby hair out of her green eye. "Such pretty eyes, I'm sure I'd have remembered them."  
The girl's facade of a graveyard statue follows the remote wandering of her eyes, away from my face.  
"You can tear them out if you like. They tend to grow back."  
I interrogate, "I'll keep that in mind. What do you want with my brother?"  
"You ever think maybe he's the one who picked the fight?" she mumbles.  
"That wasn't my question."  
"I don't see why you're protecting him. He's only brought you pain."  
"What do you know?"  
"I do my research. The De Martels are high on the list of the first vampire families. In any mainstream gamble, I'd bet high that you're one of the strongest. The ones times like this will have to do without. I don't want to kill you. Just pick up a few stolen goods and...watch you reap the consequences."  
"Consequences?" I chortle. "I take it your a witch with those kind of vague threats."  
"Not the kind you're used to."  
The girl brushes past my right shoulder, picking up the fresh, softly hued crimson lilies, examining them carefully between her fleshy talons. She plucks out a useless leaf amidst the floral heap and maneuvers toward the back of the shop.  
"Meaning?" I scoff.

The pliers punctuate my words with one loud shnk. The flowers drop like dead birds from the sky back onto the table, the bottom of their stems still in her white grip. She turns to me, face like a tranquilized beast who hasn't closed their eyes.

She decrees, "I'm the reason they still exist; that you're ten times my age."  
She takes my hands and wraps them around the spider lilies she holds while she maneuvers around the back room as if she had been here before.   
"And if you hurt me, if you can't do what I ask, Aurora... I can change that in a heartbeat. For everyone just like you."

She reaches behind me, her lioness breath brushing my shoulder as she tears a thick black ribbon from the stand just behind the supply chests. She finishes tying the ribbon around the arrangement.

"Mira. I may not be in the business of teaching others a lesson, but I have a good gauge of what girls like you will do for some attention. Even if it kills you. So, while we're talking in demands... This needs to be the last time you see Klaus. It's better for both of you—"

The bell on the shop door rings like a little bird.  
Both of our heads snap around like two twigs under foot. Niklaus looks us both in the eye, his wariness of me transferring into a sort of terror when he sees her.  
"Jezebel..." he swallows.  
She looks back at him, almost brighter in the eyes than before. Is this it? They know each other; is this where she steals my spotlight.  
"You knew about this. You wanted to ruin it," I growled at her.   
She rolls her eyes, licking her lips as she turns her head back to me.   
"Remember what we talked about. Le acompaño en el sentimiento. I have places to be."  
Klaus reaches out to her, but he's a step behind.  
The power in the room fleets for the moment, just enough time for her to disappear without the slightest trace of her presence prior.

VINCENT GRIFFITH

The gravel below my shoe soles crackles with every step. I look around the concaving row of crypts, struggling to stand tall on hilly terrain.

"Serve Her well, Seraphim, saved not by Heaven but by the sweet sound of jazz," I taunt her out of hiding.

An insect with long flappy wings brushes past my ear, making an itch in my heel rotate me around to see Jezebel, standing directly on the moon's lit path. The shiny white butterfly crawls across her left cheek and disappears into her black cloak of hair. 

"So, you're still alive. Not aging well, apparently," she greets, pacing around to the front of me.

I greet her, "By aging poorly, you mean aging in general, right? I don't have to stall my youth like everyone else to get things done. Speaking of, I expected more of an entrance."

"Well, that's the whole point. People talk, don't they?" gradually, she responds. "Last time, I disturbed the peace, it was a literal hurricane."

Jezebel walks past me and into the threshold of the Black Clay Graveyard, the moonlight seeping down her back the further into the deadly garden she goes.

She claims, "This place just gets worse and worse. You'd think tourism would have spread enough wealth for some obvious renovations."  
"Well, when a girl known to cause monsoons has a habit of coming back to tie up loose ends, we like to keep things temporary," I mocked her.  
Unamused, she stops beside the grave sculpture of a child being overlooked by a marble angel, turning her head slightly.  
"Is that supposed to be—"  
I interpose, "A joke? It's a warning. Jez, you're as good as they come, but you have a century-long streak of bad luck trailing behind you. You know Tristan De Martel is dying?"

Her eyes glow a pale white in the light of the moon like a blind cat. I watch her disappear behind the corner of the Gibson musician crypt, the clack of her pointed boots going down the candlelit walkway.  
"Oh, of course, you do. You think getting him out of the way makes stopping the Murder of Seraphi any easier?" my voice echoes. 

She intimidatingly appears in the grave doorway inches from my side.

"Tristan had no right to try and exploit me for his own gain. Regardless, that means he knows what my enemies would do to get their hands on me. He's going to make a deal with them. I had to do something," she purrs. "But, at least, now I know who has my body. It's him. It has to be him."

I mumble a charm beneath my breath that mystically awakens the undead candles of the junk candelabras of the Laveau grave.

I exclaim, "You're speculating, Jez! You always do this when you've got no plan. Now, I heard you the day I found your vinyl all those years ago. My ancestor, Celeste, she's on the prowl god knows where. And if we want to stop her for good, we gotta have numbers. So let me help you! Just heal Tristan, leave the sirelines alone. Look, I— I came lookin' for you tonight because the coven is afraid. They know you're here, you're still guilty under several pretenses that they haven't forgotten. The least you could do is make a statement of surrender to our laws. Maybe we can help you."

Her cat-like lashes doubtfully flutter an inch to closing, her head's horse tail of thick hair slipping over her bronze-plated collarbone.   
"Let's not pretend your coven's done me any good."  
"And you don't deserve their crap. You're a good kid, Jez, this I know. But you reinforced their fear of you when you fell off the deep end all those years ago. Tsunamis in Japan, earthquakes in California, mass hysteria in Italy, cult suicides in Switzerland-- You aren't bending to natural law, and for some witches, that's a big deal."  
Her spiteful tone slowly deteriorates to a regretful mutter.  
"I did those things for the right reason," she narrowly pleads.  
"See, but I wasn't there!" I assert. "So how do I know that?"  
She falls silent again, more susceptible to my disappointment than anyone else's.  
"Jez. C'mon. Just surrender. The Murder will win when it's only you putting up the fight against them," I lecture. "Ask for help."

Jezebel asserts, her voice scraping a pile of bones, "I can save myself. I do that, and your precious coven has enough room to make it another millennium or so. I survived my family long before I met you. So don't pretend we're anything closer."  
Her nimble hands slip away from the frame of the Henderson mausoleum, and she disappears into thin air just as the sun is coming up.

AYA

He's broken a sweat so noticeable it appears as though he's been for a swim. They have his hands in theirs, Tristan's grip nearly bone-breaking. The snake venom coursing through his veins causes extensive pain in his major arteries and in his cranium.

"Her name—is Jezebel Zhukov," Tristan swallows, bloodshot eyes glowering up at me. "She is what the witches call a Seraph...one of the oldest species of supernatural beings on the planet. She lacks a human form, and she's relying on spiritual energy to keep her afloat in this world. She can't do us much more harm than this without a human body, which...holds most of her power—"

He winces from another stroke of intense quivering.

I evade voicing my doubts, still questioning, "You still haven't told us why. Why does she have to be a part of this."  
"She's leverage. A priceless tool which...can speak of the end or a new beginning for vampires, werewolves...witches...! Her Holy Roller comes to collect in a month. If we don't have her, they'll—they'll kill us all. Everything we've built will be destroyed."

He tries to sit up, but I have the other members present lay him back on his loveseat. He is in no position to strain himself to be a leader at the moment.

"We hold the most recruits of high status witches than any coven around the world. We'll keep her at bay, surely," I take a chance on a promise.  
He pants heavily as though a new explanation will outdo his health.   
"Aya...that girl is vital. She is more than a witch," he swallows, bloodshot eyes glowering up at me, "She's one of the things that has created them."  
The unsightly terror in his ending syllable sends a ripple of discomfort down my spine. I even see some of our surrounding company becoming unsure of their position.

"Tristan," someone new breathes in our space.

A spastic head of fragile red curls comes speed-walking in, at her brother's side in an instant.

"Aurora. Aurora, what have you—"

"I escaped. I had to come, you know that," Miss De Martel pleas. "That wretched girl. What did she do to you!"

Tristan shushes his frantic sister with a gentle squeeze atop her knuckles.

Tristan commands, "You mustn't trifle with her, sister. Stay out of her way, unless you've already come to meddle with our sires. She's here for them. If you are not careful..."

This won't do. I don't know Aurora personally, but I know her reputation: a lunatic beyond one's sympathy. However, today is not the day I plan on upsetting her by sending her back or demanding she lock herself in a sanctuary somewhere on these streets. A display of truth, in which I am anxious of her, would make Aurora liable to do something far too precarious. Then, we are a step closer to defeat.

"You can trust me! I've already moved Rebekah. She's safe. If I can get to her brothers, they shall be—"

Tristan barks, sweat flying, "What?"

This can go on for some time.

"I suppose we'll begin with a standard sweep," I sigh.

I snap my fingers at the two newest men to join the Strix, Mario and Refta.   
"When you see her, don't hesitate. Take Arianne with you."  
They equip themselves with stakes, Refta leaving to find one of our witches. I see him second guess his large strut and pause at the front entry.   
He bends down, a sample of the sunny day reflecting off something in his hands and into our eyes.

 

"This was outside," Refta tells me as he turns back to us.

He's holding a bouquet of ripe white lilies, a card attached to its bundle. I look from the ailing Tristan to Refta, shooing him away. I am handed the bouquet's card, where the sender's initials are mockingly signed off with a devil's horns and tail.

"Ella no es peligrosa por saber lo que quiere, lo es por saber lo que vale." 

KLAUS

 

Watching her stand on the curbside with the rest of the on-looking tourists, my fingers twitched on the handle of the car door from pins and needles in my anxious veins.   
Her pensive expression gleams brighter than the burnt out streetlight bulbs in the SUV side mirror. Not one to acknowledge the trend in the jovial nature of city nightlife, she stays in one place with eyes on the horizon of tourists heads and the parallel side of the street, dissociating for all to see.

Elijah shuts the passenger door, though, I have yet to tear my eyes away from the passenger-side mirror. His puzzled silence tells me he has seen the same ghost.   
"What did she say to you?" he wonders.  
I lazily set me head against the passenger's headrest. "If she'd told me anything, I wouldn't be constantly quoting Aurora on what's be said, or for that matter, threatened."  
"This came to Marcel from the Strix gala photographer this morning," Elijah sighed.   
He put it on the dashboard for me, but I needn't look.   
"Jezebel Zhukov was the uninvited guest at that party. Marcel confirmed she is the witch Tristan had in custody," continues my brother.   
"Why aren't we going out there and setting the record straight?" spitefully, I questioned. "You saw her die, Elijah!"  
"I was told she was dead, Niklaus, I didn't see the body which is the liable reason she is standing out there, people watching."   
My eyes collapse onto the photograph Elijah had brought to the dashboard. In the crowds of ballgowns and tuxedos, with red sharpie Marcel circled the reflection of the youngest person in the picture, eyes on me in the captured reflection of the localized decorations.  
Elijah stresses. "What do we do, brother? Why is she here?"  
"I'd rather focus my efforts on the sireline war at hand," I lie to myself aloud. "There will be consequences for her, Elijah, but in good time. Even if it means...I must do what I couldn't bring myself to long ago," I admit at last.   
The live mirage of Jezebel in my side mirror startles me. Once capturing my glance, she does well not to break it until the very last second when she is absorbed by the crowd.


End file.
